& you giggled nervously in the closet

she said carefully
"I heard you write poetry" I said
"oh yeah?" & she nodded like rag dolls do
"who told you?" I asked & she pointed
over my eyebrow to a passed out, sticky woman spread eagle
on my couch
with the understanding of understating
courtship banality & television deterrents--
I ignored the passed out harlot who was dry heaving my social complexities
&
chose, rather, to
focus on
the idea that poetry wuz a gift(goat) to the soul
so, said I "poetry is a gift(goat) to the soul"
so, said she "I dunno what that means"
so, said I "it means you should rip yer shirt & tear my skin, like hard, bothersome adjectives"
she smiled with decoration glasses & removed her shirt
to expose red lace Victoria secret hand-me-down from her sister’s tit reduction
I grinned with the corner of my mouth that
chews up skin like you chew me up & spit me out
like she blew me down & spit me out on
her-- who’s dead-- but said
she mirrored your blue/jean affairs
& then
I lifted my soul extensions & removed clothes in a family friendly way
stopping only to question the situation
when I bent over gingerly
to retrieve her fallen diaphragm
red wine glistened in the afterglow floor lamp carpet
renaissance symphony circumcised robot eyes with springtime mystery
& apartment flat posters hanging chronologically over the stash of intellectual
dirty books
&
when we finished, she licked me off her lips & popped a New York Mint
in her mouth & asked if I’d like to go again?
I told her "yer no merry-go-round but I should tell you that
yes, I do, in fact, write poetry"

by Chris Haas